


everybody sails alone (but we can travel side by side)

by JourEtNuit



Category: The Wilds (TV 2020)
Genre: F/F, Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-04
Updated: 2021-03-11
Packaged: 2021-03-16 20:22:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,525
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29830407
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JourEtNuit/pseuds/JourEtNuit
Summary: Dot is covered in blood. Her hands, up to the elbows, the front of her shirt, her cargo pants. So much blood - it makes the ashen tint of Rachel’s skin even worse somehow, because all that blood should be inside her and not on Dot’s clothes, on her skin, in her hair. She wants to feel sick, like Fatin who threw up earlier when she got a glimpse of Rachel’s mangled wrist, but Dot just doesn’t have time for that. Sure, the wound is ugly, but no more disturbing than a hole in her father’s throat.-Or, how the unsinkable eight handle life on the island in the aftermath of the shark incident.
Relationships: Fatin Jadmani/Leah Rilke, Shelby Goodkind/Toni Shalifoe, The Unsinkable Eight
Comments: 46
Kudos: 156





	1. Days 23 to 24 - Dot & Martha

**Author's Note:**

> Title is from the song "Heal Over", by KT Tunstall.

Dot is covered in blood. Her hands, up to the elbows, the front of her shirt, her cargo pants. So much blood - it makes the ashen tint of Rachel’s skin even worse somehow, because all that blood should be inside her and not on Dot’s clothes, on her skin, in her hair. She wants to feel sick, like Fatin who threw up earlier when she got a glimpse of Rachel’s mangled wrist, but Dot just doesn’t have time for that. Sure, the wound is ugly, but no more disturbing than a hole in her father’s throat.

The past hour has been harrowing. Some moments replay in Dot’s brain, on a vicious, nausea-inducing loop: her first look at the empty space where Rachel’s hand should be. The sound of Rachel screaming, her voice a crushing mix of shock and terror and agony. Nora and Martha half-guiding, half-dragging Rachel to their camp on the beach, to one of Fatin’s colorful beach towels, and the trail of brown blood crusting on the wet sand in their wake. Herself, running for the first-aid bag, horror rising like a thick syrup at the back of her throat, and those paralyzing few seconds of denial, of doubt, of thinking _this can’t be happening_. 

But the panic passes, and Dot switches her brain on automatic mode ; no emotions, only a list of tasks to perform. Wash her hands with clean water and soap, then rinse out the wound. Spray a generous amount of antiseptic solution (that’s when Rachel passes out from the pain). Cinch one of Fatin’s ridiculously thin belts around Rachel’s upper arm as a makeshift tourniquet, and focus on stopping the flow of blood. 

In that first hour after the attack, there’s only one moment where Dot can’t ignore the fear twisting her organs into knots, where she actually freezes for a minute or so: when Nora looses it and starts yelling a string of utter nonsense at no one, at the sky, at God maybe. Things like _we’ve had enough_ , and _you have to come get us_ , and _please come save my sister_. Thankfully, Toni manages to shake her out of it ( “Fuck, Nora, we need your brain right now, get it together! Rachel needs you!”), and Dot goes back to bandaging Rachel’s arm.

Now the bleeding has stopped. Rachel’s eyes are closed, and her skin feels clammy to the touch, but her heart is still beating. A vein pulses weakly at her throat. 

Nora is kneeling opposite Dot, Rachel in between them. She’s also covered in blood, and still soaking wet from her desperate run into the ocean. If she hadn’t gone in, and helped Rachel back to shore… Dot lets out a trembling breath. Useless line of thought. Rachel is alive, for now, and it’s all that matters. 

A hand clasps her shoulder, and Shelby’s voice, tentative, fearful, rings from somewhere behind her. “Is…? Is she…?” 

“She’s okay.” Dot sounds rough, even to her own ears, like she swallowed a mouthful of coarse sand. “We stopped the bleeding, and she’s still breathing. That’s good.”

Shelby’s fingers squeeze her shoulder, hard, before letting go. “Oh, thank the Lord.”

“Doesn’t mean she’s out of the woodwork just yet. She lost a fuckton of blood.”

Nora winces, and Dot instantly regrets her bluntness. “Sorry,” she mutters. 

“Don’t apologize for being accurate,” Nora replies, so low it’s almost inaudible. Her eyes are red, trained on Rachel’s chest, on the fragile comfort of her shallow breathing, but she’s not crying, which Dot finds pretty damn impressive.

With some difficulty, and the help of Shelby’s surprisingly strong arm, Dot gets to her feet and turns around. She faces the four other girls, all hovering close in various states of shock and fear, and Dot’s shoulders bow under the sudden weight of responsibility, under the realization that they assume she's in charge, that they're waiting for her to decide what to do now. She’s not trained for this. She’s not qualified to save someone from a fucking _shark attack_.

Martha, who is gripping Toni’s arm so hard the skin is turning white under her fingers, speaks first. “Is she going to die?”

“I don’t know,” Dot says, wiping sweat and blood and sand from her forehead with the back of her hand. There’s blood on all of them - they all helped get Rachel to safety - and they look like the cast of one of those bad horror movies Dot used to watch with her dad. Despite herself, Dot’s brain starts making another list: they have to clean up all the blood, before it attracts animals, and they need to send someone on a water run, too, because they used almost all of their stock treating Rachel’s wound, and they’re low on firewood, and…

“I don’t understand,” Leah says, her voice hoarse and broken, interrupting Dot’s thoughts. “How did this even happen? Shark attacks are super rare, I—“ She pauses, and swallows, and her eyes find the still body of Rachel, lying on a beach towel behind Dot “— I learned about it when I took surf lessons.” 

“Sharks often bite out of curiosity.” Nora’s voice is too loud, and makes them all jump, but nobody flinches harder than Leah, and Dot knows this is going to be a problem they can’t ignore. “But they are not particularly interested in eating us. This one was probably surprised by Rachel’s presence, and it—“ Her voice breaks. Tears fall down her cheeks. “It didn’t mean any harm.” 

Martha sniffles, and Fatin wipes her eyes with the front of her shirt, and Dot takes a deep breath and looks around her. Everyone’s in shock. Everyone’s traumatized. But they cannot afford a collective breakdown right now, so she straightens her shoulders, and snaps her fingers to get the girls’ attention.

“Sit down.”

They do, forming a tight circle beside Rachel. 

“Here’s the thing,” Dot says, glancing around to make sure everyone’s listening, “this sucks. This is a fucking horrible situation. Maybe the worst thing that could have happened. But if we want to give Rachel a fighting chance, if we want her to survive, we can’t waste any time crying about it. We gotta be smart, and organized, and _better_. We gotta make a plan, right here and now, and stick to it. All of us, no exception. No dumb fights, no petty arguments, no one gets to sit something out just cause they don’t feel like helping.”

They nod, all of them looking at her with serious, tear-strained faces, and for a brief moment Dot’s stress and fear and bone-deep fatigue are drowned out by a strong feeling of pride. 

“So how do we do this?” Toni asks, hugging her legs, chin resting on her knees. “Do we need a new chore wheel?” 

“Yeah, we’ll have to figure out the main tasks and make a schedule every day, but there’s three things I wanna bring up to start us off, if that's alright with y’all.” Dot pauses. She hesitates, suddenly a bit self-conscious. Who does she think she is, acting like she’s some kind of leader, and not a poor girl from nowhere, Texas?

But Martha looks at her with kind eyes, and Fatin says, encouragingly, “Go ahead, Dorothy”, and Dot carries on. 

“Okay, first,” Dot starts listing on her fingers, “one of us has to be with Rachel at all times. Making sure she’s breathing. Changing bandages. Giving her water and food and anything she needs, including pain meds when she wakes up.” She almost says _if_ instead of _when_ , and cold sweat drips down her back, making her shiver even though it’s still the middle of the afternoon and the sun burns hot on her skin.

“That means we need a night shift,” Shelby says, nodding along. “We should make it two people minimum, so there’s no risk of someone accidentally falling asleep.”

“Good thinking,” Toni says, softly, nudging Shelby gently with one foot, and if Dot had more energy, and less pressing matters to deal with, she’d wonder when these two became close. Instead, she clears her throat. “Speaking of shifts, here comes my second point.” She hesitates then forces herself to look directly at Leah. “Leah stays on the watch list. That means we don’t leave her alone, under any circumstances.”

There’s a brief silence. Heads turn towards Leah, who opens her mouth, mildly outraged, or maybe embarrassed. “What? Why —“

“You tried to drown yourself yesterday,” Dot interrupts her. She forces herself to infuse some softness in her blunt words. “I’m sorry. But until we’re sure you’re not a danger to yourself, I don’t see another option. We can't deal with another accident right now.”

“I don’t need a babysitter when Rachel is _dying_ —“

“Leah.” This time it’s Fatin who cuts in, and she gets Leah’s attention in a way Dot didn’t. “Let us take care of you, okay?”

Leah bites her lip, hesitant, but Fatin grabs her wrist and meets her eyes and Dot can see the fight leaving Leah’s body. 

“All in favor?” Dot asks. Everyone raises a hand, and eventually, Leah does too. “‘Kay, onto my last point. It’s about Leah—“

“Starting to feel a bit personally victimized here.”

“—and Nora.” Dot pauses. “Something clearly happened between the two of you, in the woods.” Nora fidgets like she’s about to speak, but Dot keeps talking. “And frankly, right now, I don’t give a shit. We can’t have you guys fighting if we’re trying to save Rachel’s life. We have to prioritize. So until Rachel is safe, keep it to yourselves.”

“I agree,” Toni says, more serious than Dot’s ever seen her. “Anything that isn’t about survival can wait.”

Nora stares at Leah. “I want to save my sister. Nothing else matters right now.”

Leah’s jaw clenches, imperceptibly, like there’s something she’s dying to say, but she stays silent, and nods, once, in Dot’s direction. 

“Great, it’s settled then,” Shelby says, clapping her hands and successfully distracting everyone from the weird tension. “Let’s get to work.”

And so they do. They spend the rest of the day planning what needs to be done, and how, all the while keeping an eye on Rachel. They agree to move camp to the edge of the woods as soon as possible - another high tide in the middle of the night would be deadly given Rachel’s condition - and, to Dot’s surprise, it's Fatin, out of all of them, who proposes that they build, not one, but _two_ shelters, one for sleeping, and a smaller, separate structure for Rachel. 

Toni volunteers to go chop some trees down first thing in the morning, and sheepishly asks Nora if she can get a look at the sketches she drew for their shelter building competition. Shelby and Leah discuss the problem of bandages - how to make them out of clothes, and how to sanitize them to the best of their abilities. Martha maps out the areas they should prioritize for foraging fruits and berries. Nora organizes a shift rotation system. 

And Dot’s not naive, never has been: things are still dire. They might very well not succeed, no matter their determination. But as she listens to the other girls, to her _friends_ , Dot’s heart feels painfully full, overflowing with gratitude and pride. Because they’ve never been as united as they are now, single-minded, consciously focusing all of their energy, their strength, their resources, on saving Rachel’s life.

Maybe they really can pull this off, Dot thinks, allowing herself to feel hopeful for the first time since the shark attack. Maybe they can get through this.

* * *

The night falls, and none of them can sleep.

Shelby has moved a short distance away from camp, out of earshot, to pray. Even in the darkness, Martha can see her kneeling in the sand, facing the ocean with her head bowed. They've put Rachel in dry clothes, and covered her with one of Fatin's jackets - she's still unconscious, which is both a relief, and a source of irrepressible anxiety. What if she never wakes up? 

Everyone else is lying down on the sand, waiting for sleep to come ; everyone except Martha, who’s crouched by the fire, feeding it pieces of wood at regular intervals. It feels very important to keep the fire going. Crucial. A matter of life and death. She’s not sure why, because they have a lighter, so even if the fire went out, it wouldn’t be a big deal. But the mere thought is irrationally terrifying, and so Martha fixates on keeping the fire burning, because it’s something she can actually do. 

“I wish my family was more religious,” Leah says, breaking the silence. She’s looking in Shelby’s direction, something wistful in her expression. “So I could pray too. Feel useful. But the only prayer I know is the Shema.” 

Martha glances at Toni, expecting a snide remark from her - Toni is not a fan of religion, any religion. Martha gave up on trying to get her interested in Ojibwe religion when they were in middle school, and since then they’ve agreed to disagree, which means mostly that Toni leaves her alone, or only teases her gently, and saves her more sarcastic comments for people she loves less. 

But Toni stays silent, fingers digging deep into the dark sand. She’s looking at Shelby too, and Martha can’t quite read the emotion on her face. 

“I’m gonna go check up on her,” Toni announces, abruptly, and with no other explanation she jumps to her feet and strides toward Shelby. She doesn’t look at any of them, and her voice sounds strange - restrained, too neutral somehow, unfamiliar. Martha turns her attention back to the fire, trying to distract herself from the deepening pit in her stomach. Nothing feels right anymore, not even Toni. 

Nora stands up as well. “I, um”— she clears her throat and looks at her sister, blinking owlishly like she’s having trouble believing her eyes. Martha can relate. “I need to be alone.” She wipes her hands on her pants, nervously, and wanders off towards the woods without giving any of them time to react. Martha’s heart aches for her - she can’t imagine how she’d feel if one of her siblings, or Toni, was as seriously hurt as Rachel, and so far away from any doctor or hospital. The fear gnawing at Martha’s stomach, Nora must feel it tenfold. No wonder she needs a moment, Martha thinks, watching as the silhouette of Nora disappears into the night.

“Okay,” Dot says, after a long silence, “since sleep ain’t coming, might as well do something productive. I’m gonna go wash our clothes.” She picks up the bundle of dirty, bloody clothes left in a pile when they all changed into clean outfits. 

“I’ll come with you,” Fatin says immediately. She stops by Martha, and gestures towards Leah with a small tilt of the head. “Keep an eye on her for me, okay?”

Martha nods, a bit uncertain. The truth is that, even though it’s never been directed at her, Leah’s intensity scares her. But they all agreed to look out for her, and besides she can’t help feeling mildly proud that Fatin trusts her with this. So she shuffles until she’s sitting closer to Leah, and, because she thinks it can’t be easy for Leah to be under constant scrutiny, she smiles and hands her the lighter. “Help me with the fire?”

Leah exhales. Sits up. And takes the lighter. “Yeah, okay. Thanks, Martha.” 

For a while they sit in silence, watching over the fire and their unconscious friend. 

“You think she’s going to make it?” Martha asks. Her voice shakes, because voicing your deepest fear, saying the words out loud, is dangerous, she knows - it makes it real. 

Leah’s hand finds hers and squeezes, tight. “If anyone can, it’s Rachel. She’s way too stubborn to die.”

And Martha ignores the tears in her eyes, and focuses on the warmth of Leah’s hand, of Leah’s words, of the fire, and chooses to believe in a world where this all ends well.

She must fall asleep eventually, because she’s woken up at dawn by the horrible sound of someone scream-sobbing from pain. 

Everyone who wasn’t already awake is on their feet in record time, rushing to Rachel, who’s convulsing and crying on the ground. The clothes they’ve wrapped around her wrist are seeped through with blood. 

“What’s going on? What’s happening to her?” Martha says, weakly, heart in her throat.

“We gotta give her something for the pain, and change the bandages.” Dot is frantically looking through the bag of meds while Nora and Toni hold Rachel down, and Rachel’s voice is raw from screaming, her face shining with tears and sweat, eyes wide open though she doesn’t seem to see any of them. 

Shelby approaches with their last bottle of drinking water - her hand is trembling, badly - and together with Dot, they make Rachel swallow two different pills with some water, and Martha can’t look away, even though she really wants to, because Rachel is chocking and sputtering and crying, her limbs flailing like she’s a puppet on strings, not in control of her own body. 

Thankfully, the pills take effect quickly. Only a few minutes pass, before Rachel goes still, and her eyes close again, and everyone seems to take a breath simultaneously. 

“What do we do?” Shelby asks, in the heavy silent. “There must be something we can do.”

“We have to sew the wound shut,” Nora says. She sounds way too calm for the situation. “Stitches will help prevent an infection, and will make the stump scar faster.” 

“And how the fuck do we do that?” Toni says in a low voice, kneeling, very still, next to Rachel, her hands on Rachel’s thighs. 

“There was a sewing kit in the pilot’s suitcase. It’s not ideal, but it will do. Then we keep her arm elevated, and the stump tightly bandaged, and we keep her on antibiotics for a while, until the risk of infection is gone.” Nora’s voice is mechanical, like she’s reciting something from memory.

“How do you know all this?” Leah asks, not bothering to hide the accusation in her tone. 

“I read,” Nora retorts, curtly, just as Fatin sends Leah a warning look. 

A beat. Dot breathes out. “Okay. Shit. Alright. Who here knows how to sew?”

“Well, my mama taught me, but I’m not very good at it,” Shelby says with a weak, apologetic shrug. Her hands shake even harder. “I guess I could give it a go —“

“I’ll do it,” Martha says, surprising everyone, including herself.

“Marty,” Toni says, softly, “you don’t have to.”

“Yeah, I do. I’m probably the best out of any of you. Not to brag. I made a Jingle dress all by myself, remember?” 

“Yeah, but… this is different.” Toni moves away from Rachel, and comes to stand in front of Martha, hands reaching out like she wants to hold Martha but isn’t sure she should. There are wrinkles of worry on her forehead, between her eyebrows. “You hate blood. You fainted when I cut myself on a broken plate in 7th grade.”

“And I killed a goat with a rock,” Martha replies, not unkindly, but firmly. “If I could kill an innocent animal to save our lives, I think I can do this.”

Toni stares at her for a few seconds, then nods. “Okay, if you’re sure, but I’m staying with you.”

Martha smiles, grateful. Shelby bumps her shoulder. “I’ll stay too, and I can take over if you start feeling like it’s too much.”

“Fatin, Leah, are you up for a water run?” Dot asks, all business. “Cool, then go now, and be quick. The rest of you, help me move Rachel to the chair.”

They carry Rachel, using the beach towel as a stretcher, to the half buried seat from the airplane. Rachel whimpers, but does not wake up.

While they wait for Fatin and Leah to come back, they prepare. Shelby sanitizes the needle and thread with what’s left of the vodka. Dot positions Rachel on the chair, and gets some supplies from the first-aid bag: one of their few sterile pads, the antiseptic spray, the pain relief medication. Toni and Nora cut one of Fatin’s shirts - a soft, light, cotton top, miraculously plain compared to the rest of her clothes - in long, roughly equal strips, boil the rest of the water, and wash the strips of cloth with a drop of soap.

And Martha sits cross-legged on the sand and breathes, in and out, slowly, trying to ground herself in preparation for what’s to come. Honestly, she wishes she could have drunk some of that vodka. A bad idea, definitely, but the numbing burn of alcohol is very enticing right about now. Dot forces her to eat something (“No way you’re doing this on an empty stomach”) and so Martha half-heartedly chews on a few lychees. 

She thinks of her family. Her mother, knitting scarves by the fire while her father makes hot chocolate for all of them. Her older brother, darning socks in front of the television. Her grandmother, sitting on the porch on warm summer days, mending fishing nets with skilled, quick fingers, even after she’d gone blind. She hopes that no matter what, even if she fails, they’ll be proud of her for trying.

Leah and Fatin return faster than expected, and they immediately start boiling water to have at the ready, and to rinse out the new bandages. And then, finally, it’s time. Martha sits on her suitcase. In front of her, the extended arm of Rachel, still bandaged for now. To her right, Fatin, with a pile of clean bandages on her lap, ready to sponge up the blood and dress the wound when Martha’s finished. Dot, Toni, Leah and Nora are all holding Rachel down. She hasn’t woken up, but they’re about to do something very painful to her, and Martha wouldn’t blame her if she tried to deck her in the face. 

Shelby kneels to her left, one hand light on Martha’s leg. “Whenever you’re ready.”

Martha exhales. Inhales. And then she nods at Shelby, who carefully unwraps Rachel’s hand.

It takes about thirty minutes from start to finish, but it feels like years have passed when Martha leans back and says, in a surprisingly steady voice, “It’s done.” There’s blood everywhere - on the sand at her feet, on her fingers, on the chair. She’s been sweating so much, the back of her shirt is drenched, and Shelby had to periodically mop up her forehead so drops of sweat wouldn’t fall into her eyes. 

It’s not perfect. It will be an ugly scar, for sure. But she did it, and pride swells in her chest, as she watches Fatin gently wrap the now sewn-up stump in clean bandages, after one last wash with clear water. 

“You did it,” Toni whispers, echoing Martha’s thoughts. “Fuck, Marty, you did it.” 

And suddenly Martha finds herself at the center of a fierce group hug, all of them pressed together and most of them crying, sharing sweat and blood and tears and the dizzying euphoria of hope.


	2. Days 27 to 30 - Fatin & Shelby

Rachel moans in her sleep, a whimper of confused pain. At least, Fatin thinks she’s asleep. She’s been in and out of consciousness for the past three days now, consumed by a debilitating fever. 

Dot’s jaw clenches at the sound, and she pours some water on a strip of cloth - all that remains of one of the many shirts Fatin has sacrificed for the greater good - and, so gentle it makes Fatin ache just looking at her, places it on Rachel’s sweaty forehead. 

“It’s normal,” Dot says, for what feels like the hundredth time. She’s not looking at Fatin, focused on Rachel, but Fatin is looking at her: at the dark bruises under Dot’s eyes, at the tension in her neck, the fatigue in her movements, the sluggishness that comes from sleep deprivation. 

“Fever’s normal,” Dot repeats forcefully, like they’re arguing, though Fatin hasn’t said a thing. “Her body is in shock, she just suffered a massive trauma, it’s _normal_.“

“Right,” Fatin says, from where she sits cross-legged on the mat braided by Martha out of long yellowish blades of grass, beside the armchair they’ve repurposed to serve as Rachel’s sickbed. The campfire, fifteen feet away, burns bright, casting dancing shadows on the orange tarp around them that forms the sides of Rachel’s tent, which they’ve nicknamed, appropriately, _the clinic_.

“She’s not getting worse. There’s no signs of infection, Nora and I checked again this morning, no redness or swelling that looks weird, and Martha’s stitches are holding - she did fucking good, all things considered —“

“Dorothy…”

“— but man, I wish we had more of these antibiotics, cause if the fever hasn’t gone when we run out, I don’t know —“

“Dorothy!” Fatin says, louder and a bit more firmly, though she still takes care not to wake the others. It’s the middle of the night, and the rest of the girls are asleep in the new shelter, on the other side of the campfire, while Dot and her are keeping Rachel company. “Lie down.”

“What?”

“I said lie down. You’re exhausted, and stressed as fuck. Lie down, put your pretty head on my lap, and take a nap. I can watch her for a couple hours.”

Dot shakes her head, stubbornly, as expected. “Hell no, dude. You know what Shelby said: night shifts should always be two people.”

“Shelby’s currently sandwiched between Toni and Martha, so she’s in no position to make the call. I, on the other hand, am not above punching you in the face again if it means you’ll go the fuck to sleep,” Fatin replies, nonchalantly, which causes Dot to laugh despite herself. 

“What if you fall asleep?”

“I won’t,” Fatin says, confidently. “I’m used to pulling all-nighters. I’ll just pretend I’m, like, the last person awake at a party or something, waiting for my Uber driver who’s taking their sweet-ass time.”

“Yeah, but the difference is, here you don’t have your phone to keep you up. Or a naked dude.”

Fatin grins. “I mean, it doesn’t have to be a dude,” she says, wiggling an eyebrow exaggeratedly at Dot, and gets punched in the arm for her trouble. But Dot is smiling too.

“You’re such an asshole.”

“You love me. Now, come on, lie down before you pass out.”

Dot checks up on Rachel once more, and, at long last, she concedes, and stretches out on the braided mat, pillowing her head on Fatin’s thigh. 

Fatin looks at her watch (and ignores the awful twist deep in her stomach). “It’s a quarter to two. I’ll wake you up at 5, and we can do the last two hours of our shift together, okay?”

“Are you sure you don’t mind?” Dot asks, still reluctant, even though she’s having trouble keeping her eyes open.

Fatin threads her fingers in Dot’s grimy hair. With everything happening, hygiene has not been anyone’s priority ; Fatin, thankfully, was on water duty with Martha earlier, and they both took the opportunity to quickly wash themselves in the pond, so her hair is - well, it’s as clean as it’s gonna get in this hellscape. “I’m sure.”

“Promise you’ll wake me up if anything changes? Anything at all.”

“I promise. Now shut up and get some rest, you stubborn bitch.”

Dot snorts at that, but dutifully closes her eyes, and in a matter of minutes she’s out like a light. Fatin exhales. She glances at Rachel, who still sleeps fitfully besides them, and readjusts the jacket serving as her blanket, then pats her arm. “Hang in there, girl,” she murmurs, “I’m counting on you. We are _not_ going through all of that for you to die anyway. That’d be fucking rude.”

Some sudden noise has Fatin turning her head towards the shelter, alarmed, but it’s just Leah talking in her sleep. Fatin can see her, curled up at the edge of the shelter, next to the sprawled figure of Toni. She waits, keeping her eyes on Leah in case she wakes up from a nightmare and scares everyone. This exact scenario happened two night ago, which is when they discovered that Toni’s vocal range equals that of an opera singer : she screamed so fucking high it could have shattered glass, and Fatin hasn’t stopped making fun of her ever since. 

But Leah doesn’t move, or make another sound. Good. They all need all the sleep they can get. 

Three hours pass. Fatin doesn’t wake Dot. It was never her intention, to be fair: Dot has been overexerting herself, constantly volunteering for night shifts and fretting over Rachel. Fatin worries about Rachel of course - they all do - but she worries about Dot too. So she spends the remaining hours of the night with Dot’s head on her lap, watching for any change in Rachel’s breathing, stealing glances at Leah across the campfire, and listening to the distant sound of waves crashing onto the shore. Their new camp is right on the edge of the woods, and Fatin stares at the open sky through the tent’s opening. It’s dark here at night - darker than the Bay, and the stars are brighter too, and she wishes she didn’t find it beautiful. 

It’s at times like this that she misses her cello. She can think of a dozen pieces she could play right now, that would _fit_ , that would express her mood perfectly, this mix of exhaustion and tension and grim determination and awe. Her fingers even start moving, automatically, as music fills her mind, the memory drilled into her body by countless hours of practice. When she got on the plane, almost a month ago, she promised herself she would never touch her cello again - God, she was filled to the brim with white-hot brittle rage and resentment - but now, after everything, Fatin isn’t so sure. 

When the sky turns pink from the rising sun, Fatin stretches languidly, and looks at her watch again. 7 A.M. Time for everyone to welcome another day in hell, and time for Fatin to get her beauty sleep. 

Predictably, some people - Dot and Shelby - take issue with her decision to finish the night shift on her own. But given that Dot looks actually rested for the first time in three days, Fatin has absolutely zero remorse. While she’s being scolded by the Texans, the others start on the daily routine: Nora goes to check on her sister’s wound, Martha and Leah take care of breakfast, and Toni, resolutely _not_ a morning person - Fatin can relate - stares vacantly at the fire, rubbing her eyes. They share the last of the lychees, and pass around a hot drink - they’ve gotten into the habit of boiling water and crushing a few berries in for flavor. It’s a poor substitute for tea, but it does wonders for morale. 

Fatin zones out during the usual morning scheduling, where they discuss who is doing what and when, way too tired to give a shit, and as soon as breakfast is over and everyone disperses, she crawls inside the shelter and promptly passes out. Hours later, though it feels like only five minutes have passed, someone taps her shoulder. She opens her eyes to find Leah crouched beside her in the confined space. “Fuck off,” Fatin groans. “Still sleeping.”

“I’m sorry,” Leah says, in a tone that says she’s not _that_ sorry, “but it’s past noon already. There’s some lunch ready for you if you’re hungry.”

Fatin huffs dramatically, but follows Leah outside. She washes her face, her hands, vaguely brushes her hair - God, she would kill for a hot shower, a day at the spa, a goddamn manicure - and accepts the ration of cold meat and boiled seaweed that Leah offers her, wrapped in a big green leaf. Nobody else is around, but there’s someone in the clinic, almost entirely hidden by the tarp. Fatin thinks she recognizes Nora’s shoes . 

“What’s on the agenda for this afternoon?” she asks, in between mouthfuls of tough goat meat.

“Firewood duty,” Leah replies, and adds, awkwardly, “and I guess you’re on _me_ duty as well.”

“My favorite kind,” Fatin says, with a wink. 

Leah doesn’t laugh. In fact, as Fatin sits and eats and watches her, she can’t help but notice how antsy Leah is acting: fidgeting with the fire, poking at the seriously depleted pile of firewood, mindlessly rearranging the stack of bottles and cans. It’s not just that she can’t stay still, walking in circles around camp while she waits for Fatin to finish eating, it’s the way her eyes dart around like she’s afraid she’s being watched, or like she’s expecting a sudden attack. Her restless, paranoid energy reminds Fatin of that terrifying day where Leah almost drowned, and suddenly she’s wide-awake, alarm bells ringing in her head.

“Hey,” she says, casually, “can you pass me some water?”

Leah picks up a can and brings it to Fatin, but when she tries to hand the water to her, Fatin grabs Leah’s arm instead. “Sit down with me for a minute.”

Leah frowns. But Fatin tugs, insistent, and eventually she complies, settling beside Fatin on the ground. Their arms brush against each other, and Fatin, like always, finds comfort in physical contact, in the solid, reassuringly material reality of someone else’s body, of something she can touch and hold. 

“Where is everyone?” she asks, to get Leah talking. 

“Toni and Dot went to get water, Shelby and Martha are gathering more lychees, and Nora…” Leah pauses.

“Yeah?” Fatin prompts. 

Leah stares at the ground. “She realized it was only me and her, since you were still asleep, so she went to hide in the clinic, cause she knows I won’t make a scene if it risks waking Rachel up.” There’s an undercurrent of bitterness in Leah’s voice, and it makes something hurt in Fatin’s chest. She rests her hand on Leah’s knee. 

“Leah.” She waits for the other girl to turn her head so their eyes can meet. “How are you doing? For real.”

“I’m fine. Yeah, I’m okay,” Leah says, and then she worries her lower lip with her teeth, and inhales, a bit shakily, and Fatin wonders when it happened that she can read Leah’s body language so easily, that she knows instantly when Leah is lying. 

She wipes her hands on her jeans and gets up, turning towards the clinic. “Hey Nora!” she calls out, loudly. “Leah and I are gonna go find some more firewood. We won’t be far, holler if you need help.”

“Sure,” Nora answers, her voice muffled by the tarp. 

Fatin extends a hand to Leah. Leah looks up at her. “Come on,” Fatin says. “I’m your designated companion for the afternoon, it means I get to boss you around.”

“Pretty sure that wasn’t the agreement,” Leah protests, but she accepts Fatin’s hand and lets herself get pulled to her feet. 

When they’ve put some distance between them and the camp, Fatin swirls around and faces Leah, who staggers to a stop. “Okay, I know something’s wrong. I know you’re bullshitting me, and I need you to be honest with me _right now_ and tell me exactly what’s on your mind, before you do something super stupid again, like running into the fucking ocean.” She knows her words are harsh, but she’d rather be too stern than reveal the fear congealing in her stomach. 

Leah, shocked, stammers out a half-hearted denial, but Fatin doesn’t budge. She puts her hands on her hips, and stares her down. “Leah. The truth.” 

And then, because Leah looks like a trapped animal unsure whether to fight or flight or freeze, Fatin can’t help but soften. “I’m serious. Talk to me, babe.”

“You’re going to think I’ve lost it, Fatin.”

“No, I won’t,” Fatin counters, firmly, looking Leah in the eye. She watches as Leah visibly struggles, conflicted emotions etching lines on her face.

And then it happens: in a rush of words, like water overflowing when a dam breaks, Leah starts talking. She talks of what happened with Nora: cameras in the trees and a mad pursuit in the woods, being left in a pit by herself, her suspicions confirmed. She talks of staying silent after the shark, how maddening it feels, the guilt eating at her because maybe if she said something they could be saved, Rachel could be saved, and the concurrent fear of making everything worse if she opens that can of worms. She talks about the hardest part: fighting that insidious, dreadful instinct to doubt herself, constantly, and the terrible solitude of it. 

When she’s done, she looks at Fatin with something close to begging. “Fatin, I’m not crazy, I swear. I’m not making this up. You’re the only one—“ she cuts herself off, and rubs her neck, self-conscious, and Fatin… 

Fatin looks at her. Really looks at her: dirty hair, tied up in a messy bun from which a few dark strands escape, curling at her temples ; sunburned nose and cheekbones and forehead, cuts and scrapes on her arms ; wild, pleading eyes. She’s nothing like the girl Fatin remembers from school. Leah is tall, much taller than her, but here she looks _small_ , standing in front of Fatin and laying herself bare, and Fatin feels drawn to her vulnerability, and to the strength she senses underneath, in a way she can’t quite explain.

“I believe you,” she whispers, and finds out that she means it. 

And then she gasps, because suddenly she’s in Leah’s arms, her chin resting on Leah’s shoulder. “Thank you,” Leah whispers in her ear, and her arms tighten around Fatin’s back, and Fatin has to fight the very inconvenient wave of emotions rising in her throat, choking her. And maybe it’s pathetic, but the truth is that Fatin is not used to being held. Sex is one thing - it’s fun and exciting and inconsequential. But there’s a deeply unfamiliar kind of intimacy in the way she’s pressed into Leah’s body. It’s about trust, and gratitude, and the mutual understanding that they both care, and it feels better than she ever expected.

So Fatin returns the hug, and mumbles against Leah’s neck, “Just promise me you won’t try to hurt yourself again, okay?”

“I won’t,” Leah says, voice rough and wet in a way that speaks of unshed tears. “I promise, Fatin, I won’t.”

That night, eating dinner by the campfire, Fatin feels as disoriented and scared as when she woke up on a strange beach, alone, and threw up chocolate cake all over her shoes. She’s reeling from Leah’s revelations, from the long, hushed conversation they had, in the woods, as they distractedly picked branches and twigs for the fire. It left Fatin with a million questions, and she can’t help glancing at Nora during dinner, wondering what she _knows_.

And yet, strangely, confusingly, she’s never felt better. Leah is sitting beside her, close enough that their knees bump into each other every so often ; she’s smiling, joking around with everyone else, and she seems lighter, as if a huge weight has been lifted off her shoulders. Dot, across the campfire from Fatin, doesn’t talk much, too busy devouring their meagre meal, but her eyes are alert and her cheeks have gained some color, and she no longer looks like a zombie from that dumb TV show Fatin’s brothers watch religiously. 

And Fatin looks at the two of them, and thinks, proudly, _I did that_.

* * *

“We need food.” 

Shelby’s voice is louder than everyone else’s, and it interrupts the mindless chatter of morning conversation, heads turning to look at her in disgruntled surprise. 

“Yeah, dude, we’re aware,” Dot says, with a questioning eyebrow. 

“No, I mean, some of us need to go hunting again.” She feels Martha recoiling by her side, but charges on, lifting fingers as she counts. “We’ve picked the lychee trees bare. We’re not finding enough berries to feed all of us. And we finished the last of the goat meat two days ago.”

“We’ve got that broth that Nora’s been making with the bone and marrow, though,” Dot points out, “and plenty of seaweed.”

“Yeah, the broth was a great idea,” Shelby admits, with a smile in Nora’s direction, “but it doesn’t make for the most filling of meals. We need some protein, some substance. Especially Rachel.”

At the mention of their friend, they all instinctively turn towards the clinic. Rachel is doing better: after an incredibly stressful few days, the fever finally broke, and it looks like she may be out of immediate danger. She even said a few words last night, the first time they heard her talk since the accident, and it made Nora cry, and a few of them tear up. But she’s still exhausted, unable to stay awake more than mere minutes at a time, and Shelby worries that if she doesn’t get enough food, she’s going to wither, wasting away, too weak to fight the unimaginable trauma of loosing a part of her. And Shelby will not allow that to happen. 

(The truth is that she’s desperate for something to do, some mission to complete. At the back of her mind, she keeps hearing the voice of her father, whispering “God loves a doer, Shelby”, and “the Lord judges us by our actions, not our words”, and there’s this deep, deep yearning inside her still, to make him proud. Maybe because she’s well aware that he will never be proud of _who_ she is.)

“She needs all of her strength for the road ahead,” Shelby says, in a low, quiet voice. 

“I guess we could spare you for a day.” Leah gestures around at their camp: the shelter, the campfire, the tent, the various racks they’ve built to hang clothes and bandages, pouches of berries and drying seaweed, the stacks of dry firewood, the half-finished braided mats for sitting and sleeping. “We’ve become pretty efficient at running this place.”

“Okay, okay, wait a minute,” Fatin intervenes, busy wrapping her hair in a green scarf. “How do you even know if there’s more of those kebabs on legs roaming around?”

“Fatin!” Martha protests, while Leah and Dot burst out laughing. “They’re living creatures!”

“Sorry, honey.”

Nora tilts her head. “She’s right, though. Do you have a more concrete plan than just walking through the woods until you cross path with a viable candidate for dinner?” 

“I do, actually. Let me remind y’alI once again that I have been hunting with my daddy since I was, like, 14. I’ve been keeping my eyes peeled for tracks and other signs of animal life, and I think I know where to go look.”

“It’s true,” Toni says right before yawning, voice still gravelly from sleep. She rubs her eyes, and Shelby’s heart melts a little at how cute she looks in the morning. “Every time we go out far enough from camp, Shelby’s always looking at the ground and shit.” 

“Okay, but you’re not going alone,” Dot states, matter-of-fact. “We both know you can’t handle snakes.”

“I’ll go with her.”

Shelby drops her head slightly to hide her smile, while everybody else does a double-take. Toni shrugs. “What?”

“I’m sorry, you’re… volunteering? To go hunt with Shelby? _Alone_?” Leah blinks. 

“Yeah, man, don’t be weird about it. We found the lychees together, didn’t we?”

“You were also at each other’s throats for the better part of the month we’ve spent in this hell,” Dot points out.

“To be fair,” Martha says, with a proud little smile, “they haven’t fought in a long time. Not since…”

She doesn’t finish her sentence, but Shelby knows she’s referring to her homophobic outburst, two weeks ago. Shame and unease sit uncomfortably at the pit of her stomach. She wishes, not for the first time in her life, that she could take back all the hurtful, unfair things she said to protect herself from the truth. But when she glances, apprehensive, at Toni, there is no sign of latent anger, no hint that Toni resents her still. “It’s cool,” Toni says, looking Shelby in the eye ; the corner of her lips lifts in a half-smile that should _not_ be so attractive. “We worked it out.”

“Hum,” Shelby says, eloquently, “yeah, we… we talked.” She clears her throat, her cheeks burning. “Any other objections or can we start prepping? We’re losing sunlight.”

“Be back by tomorrow night at the latest, or I’m sending a search party. And no taking stupid risks!”

“Don’t worry, Dottie, we’ll be careful,” Shelby says, before giving Dot a quick kiss on the cheek. “Take good care of our Rachel while we’re away!”

Nora nods seriously. Leah offers a dorky thumbs-up. And as Martha gets up to give Toni a tight hug, Shelby meets Fatin’s mischievous eyes. “Have fun,” Fatin mouthes, knowingly.

Shelby rolls her eyes, but her chest feels warm. 

Toni and her spend the morning hiking in relative silence, too focused on tracking to do much chatting. Shelby leads the two of them past the waterfall, following the water upstream deep into the forest, in an area they’ve scarcely explored. By midday, they’re sore from walking, sweaty and hungry, so they agree to take a break by a bend in the stream that forms a shallow pool lined with smooth boulders. 

Toni chucks off her shoes, and wades barefoot in the pool, sighing with pleasure. “Oh, fuck, that feels good.” She splashes water on her face, and turns towards Shelby. “You coming?”

Drops of water run down Toni’s temples, down her neck, disappearing under the edge of her tank top, and for a moment, Shelby can’t take her eyes off her, fascinated by the tantalizing sight of water on skin, feeling rather like Eve in the Garden of Eden, but an Eve who’s already taken a bite of the apple. 

It’s still thrilling, to allow herself these thoughts, the simple truth of her attraction to Toni. They haven’t had a lot of time alone, together, ever since the lychee tree. A few trips to get water, or fruits, or seaweed. Some stolen moments while everyone was asleep. They talk, of course, all the time, and they touch each other as often as possible, and kiss when nobody’s looking, but nothing more. And to be fair, Shelby’s mind has been elsewhere, preoccupied as she was by Rachel’s fate.

But Rachel is doing better, and now Shelby is here, alone with Toni in the middle of the woods, far from their friends, free to feel whatever she wants. 

So she takes off her shoes as well, and rolls up the legs of her pants, and joins Toni. The water only reaches her knees, but it’s cool and refreshing after their long hike. Toni watches her come with a grin, and when Shelby’s close enough, she puts both hands on Shelby’s waist, cupping her hips, and Shelby kisses her, slow and careful at first, savoring the rare moment of intimacy, of privacy. Their kiss grows urgent, demanding and a bit sloppier, hands slipping under shirts, fingers mapping bare skin, and Shelby relishes in the lush, exciting, forbidden feeling of greed.

When they break away from each other, Toni nudges her nose very gently, before resting their foreheads together. “I know we’re on a mission here, but… It’s kinda nice to be away from it all. With you. Kinda makes you forget all the shit that’s been happening, you know.” 

There’s something in Toni’s low voice, a nuance of tension so small it’s indecipherable, so minuscule it’s clear that Toni did not intend to let it show through, but Shelby hears it, and though she’s not exactly sure what it means, instinctively she wraps her arms around the smaller frame of Toni, pressing their bodies together, belly to belly, cheek to cheek. She closes her eyes, inhales the smell of sweat and salt and Martha’s pear-scented 2-in-1 shampoo. 

“How you holding up?” she asks, murmuring the words into the sun-kissed skin of Toni’s neck.

There’s a silence. Toni’s legs shift in the water. “I’m scared,” she admits, a whisper. 

Shelby tightens her hold on Toni. She brushes her lips, softly, against Toni’s shoulder. “Do you wanna talk about it?”

She feels more than she sees the shrug Toni gives her in response, and waits. Once, early on, she joked, a bit cruelly, that being stuck on the island with Toni was God’s way of teaching her patience. She was right, though not in the way she meant it - God is funny like that. She is learning how to be patient indeed: how to resist the temptation to push and insist, and instead give Toni the space she needs to talk about her feelings rather than bottle things up until she explodes. 

“It’s just… most of the time, I can focus on what’s in front of me, you know, like we need water or firewood or shit, and I’ll do it, and I’ll eat dinner with everyone or play fucking Uno or whatever, and it’s fine.” Toni exhales, and Shelby feels her warm, damp breath against her collarbone. “But sometimes, it just fucking hits me, where we are. What we’re trying to do. Saving Rachel from a freak accident where she lost her hand, in the middle of fucking nowhere, trying to survive on our own, and I just… how long can we really do that for?”

Toni lets out a small, embarrassed chuckle. “Sorry, God I’m being such a downer. Maybe we should go back to making out.” 

But Shelby doesn’t let go of her. “Hey, it’s okay. I’m scared too.” Then she adds, quickly, “But not of this. I hope you know.”

“I know,” Toni says, warmly, and Shelby can’t help the smile that stretches her lips wide.

They embrace for a few perfect minutes, submerged to their knees in cold, clear water, birds chirping in the foliage above them. Then Toni gives Shelby a small kiss on the lips, and starts heading back to the shore. “Come on, let’s eat, I’m so fucking hungry I could eat my weight in Takis right now.”

Shelby laughs, and they share their lunch and drink their fill of water and rest their aching feet, and talk, quietly, of nothing.

They’re lucky. In the early afternoon, Shelby finds some fresh tracks that lead them to a pair of goats munching on some vegetation. Martha had said that the goats seemed generally not scared of humans, but still, unwilling to take any chances, they approach very slowly, careful not to spook them. Shelby does what needs to be done, quickly, mechanically. And then they tie their bounty on a sturdy stick, and start the trek back to camp.

They make it right as the night falls, and, here's the thing: Shelby has _loved_ spending this day alone with Toni - their moment in the water, the comfortable silence, the way they work together seamlessly. But glimpsing the shifting light of the campfire through the trees, and hearing from afar sounds of laughter - Dot and Martha - and someone whining half-jokingly about the state of their hair - Fatin, of course - well, it feels like coming home, and Shelby makes a decision, secretly, in her heart, right there and then as she emerges from the tree line.

Nora’s the first one to see them. “You’re back!” she exclaims, putting down her journal and springing to her feet to help them lower the goat to the ground. “Wow, you weren’t exaggerating, you really are a skilled hunter, Shelby.” Nora smiles, a bit awkward but genuine, like she always does when she compliments one of them, as if she isn’t sure how it’s going to be received, and Shelby smiles back, as everyone else rushes to meet them, commenting on their success. Dot claps Shelby on the back, hard enough to send her stumbling forward, and grins wide. “Good job, Shelby!”.

“Aw thanks, guys. But it was a team effort, you know.”

“What did Toni do,” Fatin teases, “frown at the goat?”

Toni makes an affronted face as everyone laughs. “Fuck off, dude! I’m intimidating.”

“You’re 5'2'',” Leah deadpans, and everyone laughs harder. For half a second, Shelby worries that Toni will get angry at the joke, but it’s short-lived. Instead Toni snorts, and playfully raises her fists. “You wanna go, Rilke?”

“Nope, nope, no thanks,” Leah backtracks immediately, “I have no doubt you can take me out with like, a single punch.”

“That’s what I thought,” Toni chuckles, with a smug little grin - Shelby ignores the way her stomach flutters at the sight - before she adds, “but yeah, Shelby did all the hard work. I was just there for moral support. How were things for you guys? How’s Rachel?”

They carry the goat to the cooking area, and while Toni distracts Martha from the upsetting sight with a detailed, and slightly embroidered, recounting of their expedition, Shelby starts cutting up the meat, teaching Dot and Nora the basics until she feels confident they can do it on their own. Then she washes up, changes out of her clothes, watches distractedly as Leah and Fatin cook dinner, as Martha and Toni play a game of Uno, as Dot and Nora finish up butchering the goat, as Rachel rests in the quiet tent. And that same feeling of home, of safety, of belonging, overwhelms her, until there’s only one thought on her mind, anticipation building inside her stomach, so intense it drowns out the hunger.

And so when she’s finally sitting between Dot and Nora, a generous portion of steaming roasted goat meat topped with dried seaweed and berries resting on her lap, she blurts out, loud enough for everyone to hear: “I’m gay.”

Martha chokes on her food, and Nora has to slap her on the back to get her to breathe. Shelby meets Toni’s gaze across the fire, answers her silent question with a nod and a smile. 

“You… are?” Dot asks, carefully. 

“Yeah. I guess being stuck on a desert island is good for self awareness at least, right?” She laughs, awkwardly. “I didn’t know how to tell y’all, especially after all the dumb shit I’ve said, but I… Toni, she… uh, I guess what I’m trying to say is, we, uh…” She stammers, words escaping her, not sure how to say what she means to say. Not even sure what there is to say. _I kissed her, and then I kissed her again, and we’ve been making out in secret ever since? We had sex under the lychee tree, and it was one of the loveliest nights of my life? She makes me feel calm and alive at the same time, and I never knew that was even possible?_

Toni comes to her rescue. “We’re together. It’s very new, and none of y’all’s fucking business, so keep your mouths shut. Unless it’s to say congrats to Shelby for coming out, cause that takes a lot of guts.”

What follows is a chorus of congratulations and praise and even applause, and it takes Shelby by surprise, though it really shouldn’t. If her friends notice the tears in her eyes, nobody comments on it. Toni sends her a smile so wide, so vibrant, it feels like fireworks exploding inside Shelby’s chest, lighting every single one of her nerves on fire.

“Well,” Fatin drawls, when the noise dials down. “I was gonna hit on Shelby cause, let’s be honest, bringing home the bacon just made you ten times hotter than you already were, but unlike Leah I _do_ have a functioning sense of self-preservation, so I’ll pass.”

Toni and Leah both flip her off at the same time, and Shelby laughs with everyone else, grateful to not be in the spotlight anymore.

She’s not a fool. She knows this doesn’t solve all her problems. Out there, in the real world, she still has parents to worry about, a church, and, though she almost never thinks of him, technically a _boyfriend_. And Becca... 

No, she can’t think about any of it right now. Instead, she gets to her feet. “Bringing some food to Rachel,” she explains, smiling reassuringly at the worried faces of her friends.

Rachel is awake when she comes into the tent. “I heard,” she croaks out, barely audible, as Shelby props her up so she can eat. There are bags under her eyes, and she looks sick, fragile, so very different from the Rachel they all met a month ago. But there’s also the ghost of a smile on her lips. “Good for you.”

Shelby’s eyes fill with tears again. This time she lets them fall. “We’re gonna get you back on your feet, you hear me?” She presses a kiss to Rachel’s forehead. “Here, take a bite of this, you’ll love it. Tastes kinda like a burger, right?”

Rachel grimaces. “It does not,” she whispers, and Shelby laughs, and wipes away her tears, and keeps feeding Rachel, bit by bit, until all the food is gone. 

That evening, she falls asleep with a full belly, holding Toni in her arms, satiated in more ways than one.


End file.
